


There Is Nothing I Wouldn't Do For You

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Heavy Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Incestuous feelings, M/M, Murder, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Sherlock Holmes, Pre-Episode: s01e01 A Study in Pink, Protective Mycroft, Self-Hatred, Sherlock is a Mess, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 01:45:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18129326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: “Mycroft. I…” He broke off.“I'm in a meeting. Is it important?”Of course. The British Government was still in meetings at almost 10pm.Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Yes, I do think so. You must come.”





	There Is Nothing I Wouldn't Do For You

**Author's Note:**

> This fic surprised me while I was writing it. It just... went a very different path than I had planned. Perhaps it is a bit too close to home.
> 
> Not sure if there will be another chapter. Let's see what you think!

Panting as if he'd run ten miles, Sherlock was standing on shaking, wobbly legs. Silence had followed the noise and the yelling. It was just him now, alone in a dirty drug den in the shabbiest quarter of London. Well, of course there were others there, upstairs. None of them had come down. Probably they were all too high for even noticing that something even weirder was going on… or too sober to not mind their own business.

He wasn't _all_ alone though... Which was exactly the problem now.

With trembling fingers, he pulled out his mobile phone.

Half a minute later, an exasperated voice barked into his ear, “What, Sherlock?”

“Mycroft. I…” He broke off.

“I'm in a meeting. Is it important?”

Of course. The British Government was still in meetings at almost 10pm.

Sherlock huffed out a laugh. “Yes, I do think so. You must come.”

Mycroft sighed. “Let me guess – you've run out of money for your drugs?”

“That, too. But that's not the problem. I… I killed someone…” The line was safe, naturally. He had got the phone from _Mycroft_ …

He heard hard breathing from the other side. When Mycroft spoke again, his voice was quiet, cold and efficient. “Where are you?” Sherlock gave him the address. “I'll be there in thirty minutes. Clean yourself up if you can. And then go somewhere safe. Hide.”

“Yes. Thank you.”

But Mycroft ended the connection without another word and Sherlock wouldn’t even have to know his brother as well as he did to know that he was absolutely furious. He would curse the day Sherlock had been born, wish their parents had divorced or died after getting Mycroft and be fuming all the way here.

But for a reason Sherlock had never understood, he would come and save his arse.

As usual…

*****

Sherlock left his hiding place under the stairs – nobody had come down or gone up the whole time – when he heard heavy steps. Three pairs of steps.

Mycroft was leading the way, carrying his black umbrella. Dressed in a black suit, black coat, black leather gloves, dark clouds on his face. The two men behind him, both young and tall, had forgettable faces and were dressed similarly. Neither of them looked at Sherlock, who had washed his hands and taken off his bloody shirt, only covering his upper body with his coat now. The wadded-up shirt was stuffed under the dead man's jacket now; his pants had not been soaked with blood.

“Where?” Mycroft asked Sherlock without bothering to greet him. He had black shadows under his eyes and a slight stubble, not surprising at this time – no opportunity for shaving for a second time today. He looked older than his thirty-two years.

Sherlock silently pointed into the right direction. Mycroft gave his men a wave with his right hand and said, “Get into the car, Sherlock.”

“Will they…”

“Don't ask. A dealer, I figure?”

“Yes…” A man nobody would miss; a man who had deserved to die. Not that it would make a difference for his brother. He would be here if Sherlock had killed a nun. Or the Pope… Probably even the Queen…

Mycroft nodded. “No witnesses?”

“No. There are people upstairs but nobody saw anything of the… incident, or saw us together.”

Mycroft nodded again. “Go now and wait for me.”

Sherlock hurried past him and left the house that seemed to be holding itself up by dirt and desperation. Two minutes later he curled up on the plastic-covered leather backseat of a black limousine – how predictive of Mycroft... The driver had not said a word when he had slipped into the car; he hadn't even turned around. It wasn’t the first time he had driven his boss to such a place to collect Sherlock… There was another car, a shabby, old one, waiting next to this one – probably the one needed for the dispensing of the body.

He had almost drifted off to sleep when the passenger door was opened and Mycroft entered the car. “My house,” he said to the driver and they set off swiftly, nobody speaking another word.

The two men who had accompanied Mycroft were nowhere to be seen. But Sherlock figured they were busy now - with moving the body to a place where nobody would ever find it. Somehow he was sure they weren't doing this for the first time.

*****

Mycroft only spoke when he had stored his umbrella and hung up his coat. “That's a new low, even for you,” he said in a flat tone after locking the door and activating his alarm.

His brother was talking in clichés nowadays? Sherlock refrained from pointing that out, instead he explained, “I didn’t have a choice. It was _his_ knife and…”

“I don't want to hear it. Your behaviour is a disgrace.” Mycroft started crossing his long hallway.

“Nothing new under the sun then,” Sherlock mumbled behind him.

Mycroft whirled around to him. “This isn't a bloody _joke_ , Sherlock! You _murdered_ someone!”

“I just told you he…”

“…and why have you even gone there?! You're twenty-five, Sherlock. Don't you think it's time to get a job and grow up and stop returning to the dark side with taking all the bloody drugs you can find and messing around with these, these… people?!”

“Oh, _people_! The worst insult you can find… I'm sorry, from now on I'll too sacrifice my life to the fucking Queen and kiss the arses of all those important fuckers you deal with all day and apparently half the night, too.”

They had reached the downstairs bathroom. Mycroft stared at him with a stony face and ice-cold eyes. “Go and take a bath, Sherlock. Wash off the blood of the man you killed because you can't seem to be bothered to live a meaningful life.”

Sherlock snorted. “Meaningful, all right! You're obsessed with your fucking Queen and your career. And it makes you totally happy as I can see. And you don't give a _toss_ about this damn dealer I killed. You're just worried he could be found and anyone could blame it on me and therefore on you.” Perhaps the two boys were not quite as experienced as he had thought.

“Go now, Sherlock.” Mycroft's voice was very quiet and flat now. “Your problem has been taken care of properly. He'll never be found. Leave your clothes in the bathroom, I will have them burnt. Sleep in the guest room tonight. And tomorrow I'll send you to rehab.”

Sherlock laughed. “Again? For the, let me think about it, sixth time? And you still believe it'll cure me?”

Mycroft stepped very close to him. “What else will then, Sherlock? Tell me, because I don't have a clue.” All at once he didn’t just look older than his years - he looked _ancient_ , and for a brief moment his eyes weren’t cold seas of ice anymore but full of worry, hopelessness and devastation.

Sherlock bit his lip and didn’t answer. And when Mycroft pointed at the bathroom door, his face a mask of hardness again, he silently followed his order.

*****

Sherlock spat out hot, soapy water when he brought his head back into the air. He had washed his hair after scrubbing his entire body, washing off the dirt and the memories. Not that the latter were so easy to get rid of.

He was sober; he hadn't had a chance to take anything. Somehow he hadn't wanted to take the cocaine from the dead man. Perhaps even he still had limits… But he damn wished now he was high.

Strange. He was cleared off his problem. Mycroft had taken care of it. Insult a police officer? Big brother will summon him and ask for his forgiveness. Steal a car and drive way too fast without owning a driver's licence? Big brother will call someone and everything is forgotten a minute later. Kill someone? Big brother sends his servants to get rid of the evidence. And this time he had even come himself! What an honour! In any way Mycroft had saved him once more. But it just made him feel bad.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He only saw Mycroft when he had to ask for his help. Which happened quite often… If he behaved like Mycroft and society wanted him to behave, he would probably never see him again. And Mycroft would be happy about it. Sherlock was nothing but an exceptionally nasty burden for him like he had been all his life.

He got up, shedding water everywhere. He would dress into the clothes Mycroft had certainly arranged to be ready for him and then he would leave. The last thing he wanted was to sleep in this cold, impersonal house and be woken up at dawn to sit at the breakfast table with a sour-looking brother… He jumped out of the tub. Or at least he tried. Apparently his little adventure had still some impact on him, in any way he struggled and fell hard onto the floor, unable to suppress a scream and a curse.

A second later the door was ripped open. “What have you done now?!” Mycroft, still wearing his fancy suit, rushed into the room, grabbed his arm and forced him onto his feet. “Stupid boy!”

Sherlock didn’t think. He lashed out and smashed his flat hand against Mycroft's cheek. His brother gasped and hit him back and a moment later they were rolling on the wet bathroom floor, Mycroft trying to pin his wrists but as wet and slippery as Sherlock was, he didn’t quite succeed.

A moment later Sherlock was on top of him, wrestling him down, and he was surprised about Mycroft's strength. For a man who hardly ever left his chair, he was very fit. “Fuck you!” Sherlock yelled at him. “I don't need your arrogance, you smug son of a… Fuck, what's that?”

“Get off of me!” Mycroft pushed him backwards and Sherlock, surprised to the core, didn’t fight back so he landed on his arse, still straddling Mycroft's legs so his brother couldn’t get up.

He didn’t pay any attention to his burning bum or the leg he had hurt when he had fallen out of the tub. Instead he reached out and put his hand onto the huge bulge on Mycroft's crotch. “Damn, Mycroft…”

Mycroft slapped his hand away. “Go! Leave my house!”

“Never thought you'd find me that hot.”

“Shut up!”

“That's why you keep coming and getting me out of every shit I'm ending up in. Because you want to fuck me!” It was such a good feeling to throw this unexpected and highly embarrassing discovery into his face that was far from looking smug now. It looked desperate.

“Go,” Mycroft rasped out. And then he narrowed his eyes. “That… that didn’t happen just now, did it?”

Sherlock knew what he was talking about. “Nope.”

“Did you… do it with anyone?”

Sherlock gave him a wry grin. “What, are you jealous?” He grabbed a towel and slung it around his waist.

“Forget it.” Mycroft turned to leave the bathroom.

“It was him,” Sherlock quietly said, and his brother stopped dead.

And then he slowly turned around. “The man you…”

“Yes. Do you really think I did it without a reason?” He had tried to tell him but Mycroft hadn't wanted to hear it.

Mycroft looked down as if he could see the black imprints of three big fingers on Sherlock's inner thigh through the towel. “I'm sorry, Sherlock.” His face was a mask of shock. And then thick tears started to roll down his cheeks.

Sherlock stared at him with wide eyes. His brother, the Iceman, the man without feelings, without anything that made people human, was crying? Crying because someone had tried to rape his little brother? The brother he desired…

Without thinking about it, he ripped the towel from his body.

Mycroft swallowed hard. “Don't do this.”

Sherlock slowly walked towards him, and he made a step back. Just one. And then Sherlock's arms were around his neck, and he kissed his brother on the lips, and Mycroft kissed him back desperately for a few moments before pushing him back. “No! Don't! You'll ruin me!”

Sherlock laughed. “Ruin you? What are you – a fifteen-year-old maiden? Afraid I could get you pregnant?”

“You don't want this; all you want to do is cause even more trouble for me!”

There was so much desperation in his voice that Sherlock's heart cramped together. Why _had_ he done it? He had never thought of kissing his brother. Or kissing anyone else. Mycroft was right – all he ever did was causing trouble.

But this kiss had felt… just right…

Just that he could do nothing right after all.

He was a junkie. A murderer. He should have just let the man fuck him. What's the big deal? At least he would have been good for _something_ then… And if he'd been good enough, the dealer would have probably gifted him the drugs, he thought with so much self-hatred that it took his breath away. What a loser he was…

He nodded, his heart feeling like an open wound. “I'm off then.” He walked past him, naked and wet as he was, and Mycroft didn’t say a word.

On bare feet he stalked through the long hallway and towards the door; with every step he was feeling number and more like he was vanishing, his mind shutting down. He didn’t know where he would go and what he would do but a part of him knew this was it. He had lost the last person who had always been at his side, no matter how he had failed, how much he had fucked up.

He was all alone. He could as well be dead.

And then he heard fast steps behind him, and before he could reach the door and disappear into the night, naked in more than one sense, two hands grabbed his shoulders.

“Sherlock. You can't do that,” Mycroft choked out.

“Why not,” Sherlock said in a completely flat voice. “You're better off without me and so is the rest of the world.” Who needed a drug addict who spent all the generous monthly income he got out of his trust on getting high? Mycroft was right. He was useless. He would never be someone Mycroft, let alone himself, could be proud of.

“That's not true.” Mycroft's voice was so quiet it was barely there. “I couldn’t exist without you.” His hand gently stroked Sherlock's neck and it sent a shudder through his entire body.

“You'll get over it.”

“No. I won't. Look at me.”

Sherlock turned around, feeling like a puppet that was pulled at its strings. He was unable to meet Mycroft's gaze. “Let me go, brother.” And he wasn’t just talking about leaving the house.

“Sherlock. I will never let you go.”

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly before he finally looked into his brother's icy-blues. Under the left one was a red swelling that would in all probability turn into a veritable shiner soon. His brother, the British Government, frequent colloquist of the Prime Minister, would be forced to walk around for days on end with a black eye thanks to him. Usually the thought would have filled him with nasty glee, now it only made him feel sick. He raised his hand and wiped over the swollen skin with the tip of his forefinger. And Mycroft didn’t even flinch.

“It's all right, little brother,” he said with so much tenderness that the last barrier around Sherlock's soul broke.

He slumped against Mycroft, feeling his brother's arms around him at once, holding him up, pulling him in, and the tears he had not cried for ten years shot out of his eyes. The last time he had cried had been at their grandmother's grave. Granny Holmes. Whatever Sherlock had done, whomever he had insulted or pissed off, his grandmother had always been on his side. She had never ceased to say that Sherlock was special and so he behaved in a way nobody else could understand. She had defended him against his annoyed parents and his upset private teachers and just everyone. Her death had hit him so hard, marking the end of his childhood, the end of feeling comfortable around anyone, the end of being accepted as he was, supported under whichever circumstances, the end of being loved.

But he had always had someone, hadn't he? Well, not on this saddest day of his life though. At this time, Mycroft had been a trainee for the MI5, unavailable, not allowed to return home even for his grandma's funeral, leaving Sherlock alone with his grief.

It had all started with this, Sherlock realised now that the hot tears of desperation and loneliness were streaming over his face. He had always resented his brother for his absence even though he had been forced to stay away. But for Sherlock it had been the last proof that his brother would always choose his career over him.

But was that true? Why had he thought then that Mycroft would have even showed up on the scene if he had murdered the damn Queen? Because deep inside he had known he wasn't doing him justice? That _he_ was in fact Mycroft's priority? Now that he was a mighty man who could decide what was more important to him?

All these thoughts just flashed up in his mind while he was clinging around Mycroft's neck, pressing his damp, naked body against the fine clothes Mycroft was wearing. “Don't leave me,” he all but sobbed against Mycroft's neck, not caring that he too sounded like a cliché right now, and he could feel Mycroft shaking his head vehemently.

“I'll never leave you, Lockie.”

Lockie… Sherlock couldn’t even tell when he had said this to him the last time, but it touched his very heart.

“Dear, come, let's go upstairs. You need to sleep.”

“I don't want to be alone.” Sherlock knew he also sounded like a whining baby but he couldn’t help it.

“Of course I'll stay with you if you want me to.”

“Yes. I want that.”

“Very well.” Mycroft let go of him very slowly, making sure Sherlock was stable on his feet. Then he took off his jacket and put it around his shoulders, urging him to fumble his arms through the sleeves.

Still naked from the waist down, he slung his arm around his brother's waist, and Mycroft didn’t hesitate to put his own arm around his shoulder, and so they slowly walked over to the stairs, neither of them speaking another word.

*****

It was like sinking into clouds. Mycroft's bed was pure luxury; a waterbed with thick pillows and silky-soft linen and a large, warm but light blanket, being stuffed around Sherlock's body by two big hands. It was like being brought to bed by a parent – or a grandmother.

“I'll be right back,” Mycroft whispered, grabbing his pyjamas.

“No. Stay. Do it here.”

Mycroft took a deep breath but then he quickly undressed, facing away from Sherlock.

Sherlock knew he should just close his eyes and give his brother some privacy. He definitely longed for it after what had happened earlier.

But Sherlock, the man who had never felt any sexual urges even though he would have identified himself as homosexual if anyone had ever asked, couldn’t tear his eyes away from the body that was exposed in front of his eyes. The room was only lit by a very dim light but he could see enough – long, muscular legs, a small, round bottom, a long, freckled back and reasonably wide shoulders, along with well-defined arms. His brother was stunning, and he had only seen his back so far. Too soon Mycroft stepped into his pyjama trousers and slipped into the top and then he crawled under the blanket next to him. Both had quickly visited the bathroom beforehand so neither of them would have to get up so soon.

“Goodnight, brother mine,” Mycroft said quietly.

Sherlock turned to him and a moment later his head was resting on Mycroft's chest. He could feel the heat of his body through the thin fabric that separated them, and he could hear his heart throb under his ear. And then an arm was brought around him, and Sherlock curled his own around Mycroft's upper body.

He had never felt that safe before. Dawn would force him to face reality but for tonight, he felt as if nothing could harm him.

“Thank you,” he whispered, and the arm that was holding him squeezed him briefly.

“It's all right, little brother. Everything will be all right.”

And as amazing as it was after this day in hell – Sherlock believed him.

 

 


End file.
